The Bounty Hunter and the White Mage
by KBZ
Summary: AU: A fairy tale of two lonely souls and impossible tasks and happy endings.


Inspiration: Conerwitch by charminglyantiquated

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Not many people know where the white mage resides, but ask enough tavern owners or wisewomen or elfin kind and one of them is bound to know of the white mage.

He can grant you anything, say the tavern owners, eyes gleaming wide with caution. But you must give to receive.

In the mountains, where the snow sticks, there will be rose bushes in full bloom year-round, say the wisewomen. You must walk the path between the blossoms and follow wherever it may take you.

Give him what is precious, say the elfin kind—they are of magic blood and so know these things best. The white mage will always give you what you seek.

…

Once there was a jeweler. The jeweler worked with enchanted jewelry, and it happened that one day he fell in love with a duchess while delivering a pearl necklace to a lady of the court. Alas, she held no affection for the jeweler so he sought out to win her over. The jeweler enlisted the best bounty hunter in the land to aid in wooing her.

"Find the rarest gift," the jeweler said. "I will pay handsomely once you return with it."

The bounty hunter made a blood oath to search until he returned with such a gift and set off, cape billowing majestically behind him. He searched far and wide and found many treasures:

There was a harp made of unicorn hair that played tinkling little melodies by itself.

There were gem-encrusted conch sails with ethereal connections to the ocean.

A flying Pegasus with a golden mane.

Yet the blood oath always prevented the bounty hunter from returning to the jeweler. The bounty hunter would hold the treasure in his hands, but every fiber in his body prevented him from moving with it.

This was the longest a contract had ever taken him, and the blood magic was making him weak, yet on he rode. After traveling for two fortnights, the bounty hunter caught wind of the white mage and set off to the great snowy mountains.

He periled up the mountain, fought against the frozen beasts, and searched for half a fortnight more until he finally stumbled across the rose bush path. His tired breaths froze on his furs. His vision blurred. But at long last, he found the peculiar roses and their heady scent. The leaves were the darkest green he'd ever seen, and the blossoms were full and rich like freshly fallen blood. The snow dusted neither the flowers nor the plants, despite the blizzard currently whipping at his face. Tending to the roses was a youth wearing a simple brown cloak.

The bounty hunter dismounted and approached the youth. In his little hands was a crystalline watering pot. His eyes were wide and looking into them, the bounty hunter felt himself become sheltered from the cruel winter storm.

"I seek the white mage."

"You've found him," the youth replied, guileless. "And I know of your journey to find a gift such that a duchess may love a jeweler."

The bounty hunter removed the sword from his belt and presented it to the white mage, kneeling. "In exchange for that such gift, one thousand victories yet to be had."

The youth took the sword in his little hands and kissed the blade. "So that your journey back may be safe." Then the white mage cut two dozen roses with the sword and presented them to the bounty hunter. He twirled his little finger and a golden thread wound itself around the stems. "One dozen for the duchess and one dozen for the jeweler; the blossoms will never perish and neither will the sweet nothings that may be said through them."

The bounty hunter took the flowers in his gloved hands and mounted his steed once more, and thought the pull on his heart to stay was strange.

The jeweler seemed pleased with the gift, as did the duchess. The jeweler paid handsomely. The bounty hunter spent his days training and working on his small cottage. But by night his mind would travel back to the rose path where the white mage stood waiting next to the blossoms. His mind would fixate on the youth's mouth kissing the blade of his sword and the dark curve of his lashes.

…

Once, there was a traveler. On the second full moon of rest, the traveler approached the bounty hunter's cottage. She said she was the leader of an uprising and that she needed fortitude and luck—there would be no other way to win against the cruel king of their land.

The bounty hunter did not need money, and in matters of politics he was diplomatically neutral, yet he promised, "I will come back with such a thing. I will meet you at the red valley before the next empty moon." They carried out the blood oath.

The bounty hunter strapped on his furs and once again rode out to the snowy mountains of perpetual winter. This time around he was much quicker in finding the path lined by rose bushes. The white mage sat on the ground, the same light cloak around his thin shoulders as before.

"You've returned," the youth said, standing up. When the bounty hunter's eyes met those of the white mage, his whole body was once again warmed. "You seek liquid courage for a young warrior."

The bounty hunter led his horse closer to the youth and placed the reins into the other's hands. "For a vial of such a thing, I will give you a thousand journeys yet to be traveled."

The mage took out a glass vial from inside his cloak and poured a silver liquid from his watering pot into it. "Tell the leader to drink this, and the battle will go in the favor of the righteous." Then the white mage kissed the horse on its soft muzzle. "For your safe journey back."

The bounty hunter found himself hesitating to turn away, but the blood oath called him. His journey back to the red valley was peaceful and somber—he felt the traces of cold on his fingertips and nose yet warmed he remained, despite the deep loneliness set in his heart. He arrived early to the valley and while staying in a tavern, he heard of the terrible highwaymen and beasts that dotted the route he'd just taken. He was reminded of the gentle kiss of protection the white mage had blessed him with and feared not.

"Drink this," the bounty hunter said to the traveler once in the red valley, "and the war will favor the righteous."

"Your payment," she said, stowing the vial in her bag and taking out a small tote of coins, "and the thanks and blessings of a people oppressed."

The bounty hunter saw her ride off in the direction of battle, and he returned back home. His life was comfortable, but during the dark nights, his dreams returned to gentle eyes. He would awake to the smell of roses. The other side of his bed seemed to sing a wretched empty song.

…

He took more jobs, but none required the aid of the white mage. The white mage could grant any wish, but the people who enlisted the bounty hunter needed help in getting rid of thieves or capturing murders. There were no more fantastical requests of liquid courage or the perfect gift for a beloved.

…

A moon cycle passed. Then a sun cycle.

…

The jeweler approached the bounty hunter one day on a bitter winter night.

"I paid you all I had for that gift of roses," the jeweler spat. "This is what happened to them!" The jeweler threw gnarled, brown, withered flowers at the bounty hunter's feet.

The jeweler said more, but the bounty hunter was already thundering out of his cottage and running towards the snowy mountains of perpetual winter. He traveled night and day, seldom resting or eating. The mountain loomed over him once he arrived. The winter storm was fiercer than he'd ever seen. Lightning and thunder clashed in the air, hail pelted the ground. The air cut at the bounty hunter's face, and he realized he had not even thrown on a cloak.

He climbed up the mountain. It was more treacherous than he remembered. Sharp cliffs seemed to have jutted out from where before there were smooth paths. He continued to climb and search; he was as unrelenting as the storm.

On the fifth day of searching he found the path again. The rose bushes were all but branches. All the blossoms had shriveled and turned brown. The youth was nowhere to be found. The bounty hunter followed the path, one sure step in front of the other.

He had no name to call out, he did not know where the path would take him, but he marched on.

The end of the path ended at the base of a large pine tree, and at the base of the trunk was the white mage. The bounty hunter's steed knelt beside the youth.

"I must admit I don't know what you are here for," the youth said. His voice was unsure and embarrassed. "I thought I would never see you again."

The bounty hunter knelt on one knee, like the first time. "All I have is myself to give—a life together is what I offer, yet I want what cannot be bought."

The white mage bent forward and cradled the bounty hunter's face between his hands. "And you shall have it." Then he leaned in and kissed the bounty hunter. The soft smell of roses filled the air once more, and with it, the warmth of an eternal promise.

They rode back on their steed, and the rose path was once again full and vibrant, the roses the tender pink of love now.

…

Ah, well, the white mage can rarely be found now a days. He rides with his lover, exploring the world, their hands linked and their mouths smiling. But they are no less kind. They oft stop at villages that are in need, curing whatever ails the people before moving on to wherever the wind may push them.

In their wake, they leave roses.

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end


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